Tainted
by LoveAndWar
Summary: It's not so much what happens to us, but what we do that modifies us. Dorothea SaDiablo, the manipulator of courts, murderer of countless victims, and overbearing shadow of Terrielle. What really drove this woman? What really made her tainted?
1. Sabel Residence, Draega

**Tainted**

"_One never learns how the witch became wicked, or whether that was the right choice for her-is it ever the right choice? Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or so is he not a devil?" _–Gregory Maguire

Prologue: Kaeleer

Dorothea SaDiablo stood before her crudely made sink, her pale hands braced on the sides, clutching them tightly. She didn't dare look into polished mirror before her. She would only be reminded of the horrid truth of her face. The face and body that Saetan's bastard son, Daemon Sadi, destroyed through his silent woven spell. A sort of petty revenge to eat away at her until he had his _real _revenge. Her face was old and withered. The light golden brown skin had faded to gray. Her once rich dark hair was now dry and gray. The golden brown eyes were growing dull, filled only with power, or a dying hope for it. Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip on the sink to mask the tremor of her hands. To suppress the fear that this was truly the end.

How had things gone so wrong? She never saw it, not until it was so very late. Soon now, all of the realms would know about her schemes. But not the truth. She hurt all those people for an ideal that could have been had she had enough time. But then Kaeleer got in the way. Why couldn't that bitch Jaenelle stay in her own realm? Jaenelle, the Queen of Ebon Askavi. The self righteous girl who showed too much sentiment for one who knew nothing of pain. Nothing yet. She was just beginning to feel what centuries of torment felt like. Hell's fire, she knew rape, and murder. What Blood aristo didn't? The High Lord of Hell took her in, together with the rest of that perverted family. Laughing bitterly at the idea, Dorothea shook her head gently. That family shattered so many courts, so many people.

And yet they claimed to know something of goodness.

She spent years pulling Hayll together, giving her help to all of Terreille. They all felt her presence, all benefited from her reign. It was never the Dark Court of Ebon Askavi's business to get involved. True, Dorothea did spread into Kaeleer, but how cruel was that? Hobart ruled Glacia for years before being exiled by his ungrateful niece. It seemed just to put him back where he belonged. And the unclaimed land. It was just that. _Unclaimed._ Jaenelle would ramble on and on in Council meetings, delaying important affairs to claim that kindred ruled those territories. Did she ever once bring forth proof? Did she ever once lead a unicorn in? Or perhaps a Blood wolf, if that was easier? No. She could have been lying so very easily. She was so young; and youth makes people very foolish. Even black jeweled witches lived life just like the rest of us. They, too, must learn the same lessons.

Opening her eyes finally, Dorothea looked into the mirror. What was she? What horror did she now inhibit to the people? She was once so beautiful. No one would know her story. She would die, and the realms would fall to civil war. Let Saetan deal with that. Let them all have their way, and may they choke on their good intentions. Running her fingertips over the mirror, over her own reflection, before bracing her hands upon the cool surface. Letting out a silent scream, she shattered the mirror with her mind.

They would spread lies about her. They never saw her vision. They saw dishonesty, but there was plenty of that to rest on their souls, as well. She could never be queen of Hayll, but she was the only one suitable to take over. Hayll needed a leader, lest Kaeleer attack it for their own selfish interests. So she rose to the occasion. She was the High Priestess of Hayll, and even had red jewels to back up such a claim. She guided that realm, and now here, at this camp ready to face war with the Dark Court, with Saetan and his son, Lucivar, chained up outside, she represented all the hopes of Terrielle. Hopes no young bitch could take away with her mislead conceptions.

One: Terreille

Regan Sabel sat in wine colored chair by the open window, feeling the cool breeze come in as she gazed down on the cobblestone street below, crowded with vendors and people. She came to the Sabel apartments in Draega, Hayll's capital, to prepare for the birth of her first child. As a member of one of Hayll's Hundred Families, she appreciated the finer things that Draega had to offer. Midwives and servants fluttered about in the floors below and outside the oak door, preparing for Regan's delivery. The child was expected any day, any _hour_, now. The child that would, first and foremost, continue the family line and inherit everything. Placing a bejeweled hand on her stomach, Regan smiled gently. Not out of pleasure but out anticipation of what this child would become. The child was a tool to be used for advancement. Perhaps she would be a Queen, or even a black widow. Perhaps he would be the Master of the Guard in some grand court. Courts were simmering all over Hayll, some more important and powerful than others. It almost seemed to pull Hayll apart, but the hundred Families would always be connected through ruthless ambition.

Hearing the door open and close gently, Regan recognized the psychic scent immediately. Looking over, she smiled coyly.

"Hello, Adair."

"You won't even rise to greet me properly?" His expression was unreadable. Perhaps it was annoyance, or amusement. It seemed that her response would determine his emotion.

"Well, the child. I can't very well keep standing every few moments and expect to get any rest," Regan said modestly, but only for effect. She appealed to her husband through her soon-to-be role as a mother to his heir. _Their_ heir, she corrected. The child would inherit everything they built and manipulated to their advantage. She noted his minor smile, and looked away satisfied, but not showing it. She heard him walk to the door and open it slowly. Surprised, she quickly flicked her hazel gaze at him, her dark hair falling over her shoulders.

"Where are you going?"

"Why do you ask?"

Regan pursed her faintly pink lips, annoyed. Wasn't she supposed to be the center of attention? Wasn't she carrying their future hopes? Yet her bastard of a husband had the gull to annoy her, even at such a time when she had to be calm. Before she had enough time to come up with a suitable answer, he was gone. Probably to go and fool around with one of the serving maids. Letting out a deep breath of annoyance, she slowly stood up, and closed the window.

Adair closed the door gently before maneuvering his way through the bustle of maids and down the steps. Stepping into the courtyard, he was pleased to find the noises of the house muffled. Everything was so hectic lately. He expected to stay in the country for Regan's delivery, but then, suddenly, she demanded they move to the Sabel apartments of Draega. What followed was a chaotic entourage of servants, midwives, him, and one very moody mother to be. On top of it all, she lately began accusing him of adultery. Hell's fire, Mother Night, and May the Darkness be merciful. Not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. But, deep down, he was hoping Regan would once again become the sweet, young girl he had fallen in love with one year ago. Her family wasn't the wealthiest, or the most influential, but she loved him. Being young and foolish, he believed her. But she was just like every other aristo bitch. She wanted to get pregnant right away to start playing the vicious games of court. He wanted to stay out of courts, and especially corrupt Draega.

Pulling out a silver box from his back pocket, he took out a black cigarette from it before replacing it. Lighting the cigarette, he took in the sweet smell of it. He could already see his life, out before him. Drawn into court and triangles of power, he would constantly fight to things he didn't want for himself or his children. Regan was the only flaw. He couldn't get rid of her, he could only keep an eye on her. She would whisper sweet lies in the children's ears, convincing them to do the same things she had. Sighing, he looked down, listening to the sounds of the street.

"My Lord?"

Adair snapped around, masking the anxiousness in his face. He waited for the servant to go on.

"Your wife, she's in labor, My Lord. Just thought you'd like to know," he added before bowing and exiting through the only door into the rather secluded courtyard.

Did he really appear so disinterested? The rumors probably were easy to believe. He really was the monster his wife imagined him to be. Dropping the cigarette, he crushed it with his black leather shoes before shoving his hands in his pockets and leaving the courtyard to offer whatever comfort he could to his wife.


	2. Sabel Estate, Terreille Country

**Tainted**

"_For certain is death for the born. And certain is birth for the dead; Therefore over the inevitable, thou shouldst not grieve.__"_ –Bhagavad Gita

**A/N: **Thank you Foxfire1 for the review and encouragement.

Two: Terreille

It was a boy. The parents, Regan and Adair, named him Santigo after Regan's grandfather. As Adair held the small bundle in his strong arms, he couldn't help smiling, couldn't help the pulsing of pride in his blood. He almost forgot his wife was still in the room, exhausted but awake. This child was his world now, and all noise grew mute and all objects hazy. It was Regan who finally caught his attention, telling him to come to his senses. He could see the mockery in her eyes. Apparently, the child was more a miracle to him than her. She nodded to the healer, who apparently had something to say. Turning around, he noted the hint of worry in her eyes. Immediately, a shadow of fear grew in his heart.

"The child, he's most beautiful, my lord. I imagine he'll have your blue eyes, and your lovely wife's rich hair." She trailed on, as if trying to dull the pain of the bad news that would come. He grew very impatient very quickly, and snapped at her to tell him what was wrong.

Clasping her hands together (he noticed they were slightly shaking), she licked her lips. "Your son is weak, my lord," she finally said quietly. Adair's first reaction was confusion and anxiousness. What did that mean? Looking down at Santigo, he could see the boy was pale, perhaps a little frail, but weren't all babies when they were born? The healer went on, as if sensing his confusion and afraid of his anger from her silence.

"When he grows, he may not be a very strong child; illness may follow him, especially in the winter. He won't be as strong as you, my lord..." And then she said the last three words he wanted to hear at that moment. "…If he survives."

A hot anger swept over him before he stalked from the room, unable to look at Regan. Clutching the child to his chest, he wanted nothing more than to take them both away where Santigo could grow strong, and tall…and live. Moving into his bedroom, separate from Regan's, he locked the door with a sapphire shield. The Opal Jewels around Regan's proud neck couldn't hold up to that. Looking down at Santigo, then, he was torn between emotions. Part of him wanted to weep at what may come; part of him wanted to laugh at the joy of the child in his arms, even if it wouldn't last. The last part of him remained silent, and that's exactly what Adair did for the rest of the evening, holding the one thing he loved to his beating heart.

Three: Terreille

Santigo ran through the marble halls of the Sabel estate in the country land of Terrielle, blood pulsing loudly at his temples, hammering the beat in his ears. Rounding the corner, he scuffled across the floor, trying not to slide on the polished floors. He stopped momentarily to breathe and to think upon his options. Under the stairs? No, too visible. In the atrium? Too obvious. Behind the book selves? Too dangerous (what if Father found out?) He finally settled on the kitchen; the staff were always happy to help. He couldn't help the nagging worry in the back of his mind, telling him to take it easy. It was his father's voice; he was always so worried about him overworking himself. It was that warning that made him run faster now, made him work harder. He had to prove them all wrong. Mother understood. She encouraged him to learn weaponry; to run ad jump. "You could be Master of the Guard someday in some grand court," she used to say.

Slinking into the kitchen, the staff took note of him, smiled, and went back to their work, as he didn't appear to be there to talk. He smiled back at them, thankful for their silence as he ducked into one of the shining metal cabinets. He drew his knees to his chest and concentrated in breathing through his nose. He didn't know how long he waited there, maybe five minutes, before he heard the formal door of the kitchen open once more, the door the family used. Straitening up in his confined space, he held his breath and waited. Suddenly, the cabinet door opened, and he was greeted to the sight of a young girl. A girl of bronzed skin and silky brown hair; her hazel eyes held flames of intrigue and courage. She said nothing right away, but merely reached out her small hand and gently touched his arm.

"You're 'it'."

Frowning, Santigo sprang from his hiding spot.

"How did you find me so fast?"

"You hide there last week."

"So…there's plenty of other cabinets in here you could have checked first."

"But you're not smart enough to try another cabinet."

Santigo gave up, nursing his bruised ego, as he didn't know what to say. He couldn't keep up with the cruel wit or speech of his sister.

"I don't want to play anymore," he said, squirming slightly, no longer happy with the game.

"You can't stop just like that."

"Who says I can't?"

"The rules of the game."

"There are no rules of the game!"

"There are too, you idiot."

The formal kitchen door swung open once more, cutting off the argument for the time being. Both children looked at the middle aged man entering the kitchen, both seeking his blue gaze. Adair Sabel loved all his children, but had a special fondness for only one present. Adair, his first born. The child he wanted to inherit his titles and land. Regan didn't want it, for she didn't believe Santigo strong enough. Adair didn't care if Santigo was the best warrior or had the brightest mind. All that mattered was that he had the biggest heart. And right now, that heart had no place straining itself on such a trivial game.

"Santigo, I thought I told you to not strain yourself."

"I wasn't," the curly brown haired boy protested, taking a step forward.

Adair frowned slightly, but there was an amused gleam in his eyes. "Take it easy for now. Go up to your room and study your history. According to your tutor, you're struggling in that class right now."

Santigo brushed past his father, but briefly turned around to stick his tongue out at his sister. Smirking, he pounced out of the room, liking to believe that he had the last word…or action, at the very least. Adair looked down at the remaining child, his daughter. She smiled sweetly up at him, sweeping back her pink satin gown to curtsy.

"I feel ever so bad for Santigo, father. It's such a pity he can't get such good marks as me. Mother says that with my mind, I can surely excel in the Hourglass Coven."

Adair hid his annoyance. Of course Regan would say that. By the power of suggestion, she was using their child to make up ideas to get them out of the country and back into Draega.

"I'm sure he'll receive great marks with age. Some of us just learn faster than others." Nodding, then, he quietly left the room. He wanted so bad to be close to his children, but Regan made that impossible with her manipulation. There would always be a cold wall separating them. He slowly walked through the halls, taking the cold staircases to reach the third floor. Stopping by Santigo's oak bedroom door, he pressed his ear against the door, glad to know that his son was able to study while listening to music. He shook his head and walked further down the hall. Opening the door, he walked into the quiet room. His daughter's room. That's all _she _was to him now. There was nothing personal between them, no names, only the bloodline of father and daughter. He stood silently in the room, not sure what to do with himself.

"Father?"

Adair turned around, pleasantly surprised to see a small witch looking up at him. She had short brown hair, which she demanded so as to make archery easier, and playful, yet kind, brown eyes. Her skin, like his, was bronzed, a light golden brown color. His third child, yet the product of only a second birth. He was as surprised as Regan to find that she had twins. The difference was that he was pleasantly surprised. Kneeling down, he held out his arms to her. She rushed into them, like some fleet footed nymph from ancient tales. She smelled like the forest, like crushed flowers and rainwater. Even for one so young, she was so strong and quick, her mind and sword always once step ahead of her opponent's. Yet she still loved to be a child, she liked the idea of being a maid. She didn't mind the country, or playing with her older brother. Adair smiled in spite of himself. He loved everything about this daughter. He loved everything about Dorothea.


	3. Sabel Estate, Terreille Country Two

**Tainted**

"_You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers.__" _-John J. Plomp

Four: Terreille

Dorothea Sabel darted through the stone archways leading away from the Sabel Estate, the crisp air flowing through with the morning mist. On her back a leather cylinder bag was strapped, full of wooden arrows. Her thin, white shirt was sleeveless, her faded black pants cut off jut before the ankle. Her calloused feet strayed from the path onto the cool, emerald grass. Dorothea loved the feel of the dew on the soles of her feet; she appreciated the taste of the air on a fresh day. In story books she often read about ladies of court fantasizing about the rolling hills of the country, offering nothing but a population of trees and grass. Here, she could only imagine the city. Her mother often sat by her curtained window, sighing as she thought of Draega. It seemed a fascinating place, too lovely to exist. The most precious things existed only in fantasy, it seemed. But then, her father often scoffed at Draega; he rarely spoke of it. The extreme range of emotions regarding the city only deepened Dorothea's curiosity.

"Dorothea!"

The slender witch's lips broke into a smile.

"Good morning Will. Ready to go?"

"I should be asking you the same thing," a dark hair boy replied, giving her a smirk with his golden brown eyes.

Dorothea nudged his arm as she started on the way to the hawking station on the edge of the forest. They continued on in pleasant silence until they reached the station, each entertaining his (or her) own thoughts. The young boy, William Knoll, pulled the door open before bowing mockingly to Dorothea.

"Ladies first."

"Why do you think I'm waiting?"

"Honestly, you're as bad as your sister at times."

"Larqua isn't _that_ bad," Dorothea brushed past him, her face growing cool as she marched over to the equipment rack.

"I mean no insult, Dorothea, but the girl's completely nuts. She's cruel to the boys of the village, turns up her nose at _her own brother-"_

"Mind your tongue, Sir," Dorothea interrupted softly, using her formal court voice (or what she imagined to be a court voice, having never actually been to one.) Dorothea was close to Larqua on a level no one could understand. Because they were twins there would forever be a psychic connection between them nothing-or no one-could touch.

"Forgive me, Lady," William replied gently, frowning slightly. He didn't mean to make Dorothea mad; she was one of his best friends, but he couldn't stand her sister. As a noble's son, he could appreciate spending time with the Sabel family. Well, most of them. Larqua and her mother declared him 'country trash', unfit to be considered part of one of Hayll's Hundred Families. He didn't care; they were both psychotic bitches as far as he was concerned. Regan Sabel was outraged when her husband, Adair, allowed William to watch after Dorothea when she went out hawking. Well, someone had to protect her, and Will was proud to boast that he was the best warrior in his age group, and therefore most suitable for the job. At first, watching over Dorothea meant keeping at a quiet distance, letting her do as she pleased. It meant just having a summer job.

Dorothea changed all that. He was a suave fourteen year old (or so he liked to think), and she the blossoming bud of feminine youth, newly turned eleven. She was brighter than most eleven year olds. Hell's fire, she was quicker, more mature…more beautiful.

"Mother Night, Will, I can't stay mad at you forever." Dorothea laughed playfully; it was an intricate sound, alluring yet innocent.

"Well that's a relief," he replied with a smile as he helped her onto her black mare, Marie.

Once he mounted his grey stallion, Nero, they both cantered out of the station together. Will knew that riding with Dorothea would mean riding hard all day with few stops or relief. He knew he would have to stay on his toes to out-hawk her. And, May the Darkness be Merciful, he loved that.

Five: Terreille

Regan sat stoutly at her vanity, sifting through the jewels in her small wooden chest. She chose a pair of pure white pearl earrings, and seriously considered wearing them before replacing them. She finally settled on a pair of sapphire and diamond studs to match her cloth of silver gown for the night. Adair allowed her to surround herself with finery; allowed her to have everything she wanted, under one condition: that they wouldn't return to the city. Regan whispered her snide comments, pleaded that it was detrimental to the children's futures to remain in the country, but he did not budge. She tried not to sigh now.

"We've put off the twins' birthright ceremony for a few months now. Perhaps it is time to really consider it," she said quietly, yet her request was actually rather loud to anyone really listening.

"They have no need just yet. Let them be children for a while yet," the reply was just as quiet, yet colder and harder.

"But they will need sufficient time to study with Craft tutors before-"

"Before what?"

"Before they go off on their separate ways. They can't remain here forever."

"Why not? The estate's big enough." Damn the bastard. He was mocking her.

"Larqua-she wants to study in the Hourglass Coven. Her future depends on this, Adair." Regan turned in her seat to face him, her lovely eyes pleading.

She was greeted with frosted features.

"And the other?"

Confused, Regan arched her left eyebrow. "What?"

"Our other child," he said softly. "Dorothea."

"Oh yes, Dorothea. Well, surely she'll need Craft out there in the woods. Hunting and that sort of thing."

"Arrange it, then." And with those three words, Adair rose and left silently.

Walking away from Regan's suite, he wondered why he gave in. Well, not really gave in. Some part of him wanted it, too. Santigo walked away from his ceremony with Summer-sky jewels. Impressive enough. With time, he could possibly earn Green jewels in his Offering to the Darkness. Adair wanted Larqua to have what she wanted, but at what cost? She often asked him why he begrudged her wishes. He didn't want to answer, and he didn't. He just walked away, like he did from everything. And that's what he was doing now. Walking away from what could not be stopped, letting the cost go unchecked.


	4. Sabel Estate, Terreille Country Three

_**Tainted**_

"_I have found the best way to give advice to your children is to find out what they want and then advise them to do it." _–Harry S. Truman

Six: Terreille

Larqua Sabel sat straight-backed at her blackwood writing desk, the gleam of its polished surface growing dull with the setting sun. The looming windows cracked open but a few inches allowed enough of a breeze to come in and ruffle the sheets of paper on her desk. It was annoying, but she was willing to put up with it. The hottest part of summer was at its prime in the Terreillian countryside, to an extent that Craft could only do so much. Neither Adair nor Regan knew much craft regarding temperature control; a hearth witch had to be sent for. Even her knowledge was limited.

The young witch was nearing the end of her Old Tongue translations when a great gust of wind blew the window open and knocked her ink pot over. A string of the most un-Ladylike curses followed as she quickly stepped away from her desk. She managed to save her translations, and even her dress was spotless, but the ink quickly splashed over the side of the desk and onto the cream colored carpet below. Throwing her translations on her oak chest, she flitted to the large double doors acting as the entrance and exit to her room. Her pale pink summer gown flew gently out behind her with her quick, predatory movements; her dark brown curls bounced over her bronzed shoulder.

"Elektra!" The command came out as an agitated hiss. Moments later, a young red-faced maid with worried eyes pounced up the stairs, breathing heavily.

"My Lady," Elektra said swiftly, dropping into a clumsy curtsy.

"Why were you not close to my suite of rooms?" Larqua's eyes drew into thin slits, her body drawn up like a fortress of ice.

"I'm sorry, my lady. I was delivering a message for the young master." Both Elektra's eyes and voice fell as she spoke, fearful of the conniving girl before her.

"Then let Santigo's maid handle such matters. And look at me when you speak!"

Immediately, Elektra's eyes snapped up. "I'm sorry, My Lady. The young master's maid has taken ill and-"

"I don't wish to hear excuses for your poor work habits. Now hurry into my room. My ink pot fell over and put quite a heap of ink onto the carpet below."

"Of course, Milady. You should be careful, forgive me for saying so," the maid added hastily with Larqua's nasty gaze, "but your mother says that she can't keep having mistakes of that nature happen. You know Santigo-the young master, pardon me-had several ink spills last month."

Larqua waved her away, as if in disgust. "I am not my foolish brother, and you'd do well to remember that. Now clean up the mess. Hell's fire, at least try to do something right."

Leaving her maid to deal with the mess, Larqua stalked her way down the hallway to her mother's private sitting room. Upon entering, she found the grand windows to be opened, yet the heat had not dissipated. Regan, seeing the look on her young daughter's face, dismissed her maid with the nod of her head. The maid, an older looking woman, nodded gently and exited, closing the door quietly behind her. Larqua, her chest rising and falling more heavily than usual, finally threw herself before the ornate oak chair at her mother's feet.

"Oh, mother. I can barely stand this life here. I'm so tired of the country. Take me to any city, or any court. Just get me out of here," she said as she leaned against her mother's knees, near to sobbing.

Regan, taking great pity on her daughter, stroked her silky hair silently for a few moments. She let Larqua release her anger before cupping her chin in her jeweled hand. Raising Larqua's face to meet her gaze, Regan smiled in a bittersweet fashion.

"Beautiful child, I know your suffering. Your place is not here, as you have a great future ahead of you. Greater than your brother's, or your sister's. You could _be_ somebody wonderful. A member of the Hourglass coven, a first circle witch in a grand court, or, perhaps, a powerful healer. Whatever you want may be yours. Go after it Larqua, for I shall always stand by your side."

"And what of Adair?" Larqua had long ago stopped calling Adair 'father'.

"There are ways around him. He likes to believe he's one step ahead of the game, but really, he's two behind. He's less real than you or me, and therefore a cheap boundary. As cheap as his words."

Larqua stood up quietly, contemplating silently. She tapped one thin nail against her lips while eyeing her mother.

"Make arrangements to get me out of her, mother; disguise me as a merchant, or flute player, or anything to your liking. It just has to be good enough to get me out of here without suspicion. I'll join a court, and work my way up to the Hourglass coven. I'll bedazzle them all, and outshine their achievements. No one can surpass my talent, though cooped up it is here…" With each word, Larqua seemed to lose focus of the room; though her sharp gaze was on her mother, she didn't seem to know she was there. She was conducting a conversation with herself, and flirting with a dream she held hidden inside for too long from all, save Regan.

"Larqua, the court is no place for young girls with manipulative ideals. Apart from that, your father can easily come and retrieve you."

"Then I can hide."

"Then I will no longer be able to help you."

"Not even in secret?"

"Adair is stronger than me; he'll find the information he seeks if I have it."

"So be it. I have to get out of her, even if it means taking a bit of skin off my own back."

"I assure you, Larqua, at court much more than a 'bit of skin off your back' is only the beginning of what they will do."

"You sound as if you scorn my plans, now, _Regan_."

"Not at all. I'm only preparing you for a harsher reality. The court loves a liar and a traitor, Larqua, provided that it doesn't affect them. You must conform to their beliefs and play tangled games with every one of them, even if you hate them-and you will. The greatest misconception about individuality is that you must be staunchly and openly different to be rebel. That is naïve and foolish. You will never get anything done if you openly go against them. You must make them love you, while you conduct your affairs in secret. Alas, these are my final words of advice to you: If you want to be bad, Larqua, then you must be good at it."

Seven: Terreille

Adair stood leaning against the mantel of the large fireplace in his study. His elbow laid limply over the polished surface, while his blank gaze fell to the ashes scattered throughout the quiet fireplace. No fire was lit, as it was already unbearably hot in the house. Strangely, he felt cold. His silence, however, was cut short as he subsided into a coughing fit. With old age came disease and illness; it was depressing if you didn't mind leaving behind what you loved so much. If you accepted it as part of fate. Yet he really wasn't that old. The healers in the neighboring town couldn't find anything wrong with him; at least, nothing physically wrong.

The double doors to his study opened and closed quickly with a quiet _clink._ When he turned around to face whatever servant that came to bother him, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a young little girl who came to disturb his boredom. Smiling, he waved her over.

"Dorothea, I thought you were out for the day riding."

Sliding into a nearby chair, Dorothea slung her old, faded bag to the floor as she smiled over at her father.

"I was, but Will was suddenly called back by his father. So, we had to cut our ride short for the day. I thought you'd enjoy some company."

"Of course I would," he replied gently as he seated himself in a chair opposite of her.

"Ya know, father, ever since I received the Opal jewel in my birthright ceremony last year, I haven't really done anything with Craft lessons-and that's okay," she quickly added at the surprised look on her father's face. "But, I don't think it would hurt to learn a little. It might make it easier to get things done. Liking cleaning and fetching arrows, and that sort of thing."

"Ah, yes, by the state of your room, I can see you need all the help you can get in cleaning it."

"You mock me!" She said, but she was laughing. Adair loved the sound of her laughter.

"Very well, my lovely daughter, I can arrange a tutor for you, like I did or Larqua."

"No, not like Larqua. I don't want the kind of tutor she has." There was a wary look in Dorothea's eyes. Adair's left eyebrow slowly rose as he considered her. His fingers found themselves clasped together in a steeple shape beneath his chin.

"What's wrong with Mr. Laven?" He asked quietly.

"Nothing," she said softly, looking away, as if modestly. This bothered Adair even more as Dorothea was most certainly not modest-almost to a fault. "It's just that I don't wish to learn the same kind of lessons as she does." She gave him a weak smile; he would have preferred for her to keep her gaze on the floor.

"Dorothea-"

"It's nothing, Adair," she said as she flashed him her sharp golden gaze. Her long fingers curled over the arms of the chair as she pursed her lips, the warning her silence begging him to let it go.

Leaning back in his chair, Adair resolved one day to bring it up again, but not now.

"Have you seen your sister today?" It was meant to be a lighter topic, yet it didn't come out that way.

"Yes, shortly before going up to visit with Santigo."

Adair nodded gently as he slowly looked away and they both subsided into their own thoughts. The seeds of fate were sown early for everyone, even now, as they are in all tragedies. Already, nothing could be done to curb Regan's contempt, or Larqua's greed. Nothing could make Santigo healthy or intelligent; nothing could give Adair hope, save Dorothea. They had control over everything and nothing all at the same time. All they could do is set out on the path already made for them, so that history and destiny could go on with no obstacles.

Looking at Dorothea now, silent and isolated, even from him, he knew that he wanted nothing more than to protect her from the inevitable. It was a weak campaign, but he tried to console himself with each breath that "it would be okay." His illness would subside, Santigo would grow strong, and Dorothea would never fear again. His mind suddenly shifted back to Larqua's tutor. There was something _eerie_ about him. He'd ask her about it someday, somewhere. What Adair didn't know-couldn't know then-was that he'd never ask Dorothea about it. And as Dorothea slowly got up to leave, he didn't know that he would never see her again.


	5. Sabel Estate, Terreille Country Three

**Tainted**

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews. I'm happy to hear that it's enjoyable so far. Please stick in; it's going to be a long one.

"_It is bitter to lose a friend to evil, before one loses him to death.__" _-Mary Renault

Eight: Terreille

Larqua Sabel crossed her arms as she stood before the grand windows that graced her spacious room. They were closed now, so that no breeze could come in and ruffle her long dark hair, or her thin silk robe. Just as well; with the evening came a relief of the heat, allowing the windows to finally be closed. In the morning, the hot sun would surely set in again. But now, as the sun was setting in its brilliant color, her calculating eyes narrowed down on the three figures in the field below: Dorothea, Santigo, and William. They were playing some new ball game that became stylish in the Blood village in the valley below. No doubt getting themselves worked up for just an hour of petty fun. Adair would no doubt be pleased to find that Santigo was outside running about like a frenzied child.

Her brother always was a disappointment. Just like Dorothea, her together with that country driftwood she insisted on spending time with. And yet, Larqua felt herself drawn to Dorothea in a way neither of them could control. They were different as night and day; and yet, the world could not go on without either. Just as they needed each other. The Blood sang to the Blood, and it sang so very loudly. But their tunes were out of sync, and they were safer apart than together. And now was the time to draw the lines. Adair was sick, she knew, from an illness provoked by the mind over the body. Should he die, his fortunes would surely fall to Santigo, with a small pension left to their mother.

Needless to say, Regan would gain control over the fortune until Santigo came of age, at the age of 18. But that was only two years away. It wasn't enough time to manipulate and effectively use the resources at hand. And Santigo wasn't a complete fool; he had a rough kind of practicality, urged on by Dorothea, who was always there behind him like a helpful shadow. Dorothea was an obstacle that could easily get in their way, for she could easily speak out. But none of that would ever happen. When Adair dies, common law dictates that his fortunes fall to the oldest child. And when that happens, Larqua would be he oldest child (having been born a few minutes before Dorothea), for Santigo will be dead.

Nine: Terreille

The moon was pale, yet brilliant, in the ebony sky above. Dorothea took in the pleasure of its sight, together with the cool breeze of the night, as she traveled back to the Sabel Manor. Santigo ran up ahead, through the golden fields, chasing a rabbit as he brandished a wooden sword in the air. William walked quietly at her side, hands in pockets as he, too, took in the cool beauty of the night. It was running toward midnight and the last thing he wanted was lecture from Regan Sabel. Not that the bitch really cared. The only child she cared for was that spoiled brat, Larqua. Shaking the thought from his mind, he turned his light golden brown face to look at her.

"Talk to your father yet about Craft Lessons?"

Twitching from her own thoughts, she, too, turned her gaze to meet his. "Yes."

Nodding, he fell silent. They walked along for a few more moments before he decided to go on. "Pretty impressive-an Opal Jewel. With time, you could even achieve a Red Jewel.

"If I'm not broken," she added quietly, looking away.

"Yes," he replied, one confused eyebrow arched. "But that won't happen. You're safe out here in the country."

"There's danger everywhere. Are we hunting tomorrow?" She added quickly, louder now than previously. Suspicious at the abrupt change of subject, he pursed his lips.

"We can if you want to. What do you mean?" He wasn't getting too dissuaded from the previous subject that easily.

"What do I mean about what?"

Annoyed now, he stopped walking. Dorothea wasn't that forgetful or dumb, nor was she without a talent to read between the lines. "You know what I'm talking about."

But Dorothea did stop walking. Instead, she continued on with the last few remaining yards to the house. Santigo stood there waiting beneath the archway of the servant's entrance.

"We'll talk tomorrow," she threw over her shoulder. And with that, they both entered into the house.

Not sure what to think, William stood there silently for a few minutes. Did she not wish to speak before her brother? Was something actually wrong? Did she really intend to speak tomorrow, or was she just stalling for the time being?

Ten: Terreille

Dorothea draped herself over one of the many chairs of her brother's room. A candelabra to her right provided the only light of the room, save the moonlight streaming in. Picking up a leather bound book on the table beside her, her fingers flipped through it restlessly before she put it down again. Santigo, on the other hand, was quickly moving about the room, jumping off of chairs and trunks, even his bed. Clutching the wooden sword in his hand, he made thrusting movements with it through the air, as if striking down invisible foes.

"Santigo, take it easy," Dorothea said gently as she watched him.

Stopping suddenly, he turned to face her. "Why?"

"We've been messing around all day. I'm tired, and I know you have to be." She tried to put it delicately, considering that Santigo had recently become rather sensitive about his frail condition. He still wasn't happy.

"So you don't think I can handle it?" He asked harshly.

"No. I suggested that you shouldn't try."

"Hell's fire, Dorothea, I'm not as weak as you all think I am." With each word, his voice rose.

"I don't think you're weak, Santigo." She tried to appear calm, but some emotion did leak through. "But-"

"But nothing. I'm so tired of everyone in this family telling me that I'm such a disappointment-"

"We don't think that-"

"QUIET!" Retreating, Dorothea fell silent as she sunk into the chair. Finally tearing his gaze from hers, Santigo began to pace.

"I may not be as good as Larqua at Craft, or as good at you at archery, but that doesn't mean I'm not worthy, Dorothea." Dorothea had to bite her tongue to keep quiet. He apparently had been wanting to say this for a long time. She'd let him rant.

Surprisingly, though, he said nothing more. Throwing the sword to the floor, he went to his large windows that faced the east. Arms crossed, he did not look back.

"Goodnight, Dorothea."

"San-"

"I said goodnight!"

If it had been anyone else, she gladly would have jumped up and shouted, "Wait just a damn minute." But that wouldn't tonight, not with him. Ducking out of the room, she slowly made her way to her own suite of rooms.

Eleven: Terreille

When Dorothea woke up the next morning, it was still dark out. Most would have just fallen back to sleep, but such an early time was ideal for hunting. She was both tired, yet anxious. Plagued by her brother's woes, she fell asleep last night only after several hours of turning and tossing between the soft sheets. After throwing on her leather pants, an old tunic, and her faded boots, she picked up her bag and headed out of the room. But before she could head down the grand staircase, she stopped herself. Something tugged at her mind to make amends with her brother. She couldn't go hunting today knowing that he was mad at her. Swiftly turning, she headed to her brother's room.

Not bothering to knock, she quickly walked in, only to discover he was still asleep. Not surprised, she moved further into the room. He might wake up upon feeling her presence. Pulling up a chair beside his bed, she flopped into it. Resting her elbows on the edge of the high bed, she watched him sleep. He was such a sound sleeper-she never noticed. His eyes didn't flutter, nor did his chest visibly fall and rise. Narrowing her gaze at the thin chain about her neck with Summer-Sky Jewel, she reached her hand out to touch it. It was such a pretty Jewel, brighter than her own Opal one. But she noticed something strange. Not with the Jewel, but with his skin. It was so very cold. Confused, she shook him.

"Santigo, wake up."

Nothing happened. A frantic talon of fear curled around her heart as she shook him again, more violently now. She called his name, but he did not awaken. Falling out of her chair, she sprawled across the floor. He couldn't be _dead_, could he? No. William's words: _You're safe out here in the country_. Things like this didn't happen out here.

"What's wrong, sister?" A cold voice.

Quickly moving to her feet, Dorothea drew herself in like a fortress. Larqua only stared back.

"Go and get Father-quickly!"

"No."

"What? What in the name of Hell is wrong with you? I think Santigo's sick." Hell's fire, please just let him be sick.

"Not sick. Dead."

Dorothea's breathing hitched up a notch, as she shook her head gently. "What do you know?"

"Nothing." Frosted words.

"You're responsible for this!" Dorothea practically spit the words at her.

"No, I'm not. My grief is cold, yours hot. But we both mourn."

"LIAR!" Thoughts racing, Dorothea lunged at her sister. Larqua could whisper any sweet words she wanted, but Dorothea could sense her nature. They were twins; the connection ran deep and hot.

Larqua instinctively called in her Opal Jewels before Dorothea could touch her. Their strength was equal; sisters of the soul and blood; bother just as strong and weak. In response, Dorothea called in her own. Not nearly as ornate as her sister's, they hung from a plain cold chain about her neck. Larqua had morning training in Craft, but Dorothea had training in survival. She became the predator, and was intent on hunting her sister as prey. Deep down, some desperate call tried to break through. It tried to remind her that Laruqa was her sister, that violence was not the key. But hot contempt swept over the walls of her mind and body, taking over everything.

Laughing as her sister strengthened her shield, Dorothea knocked a chair out of her path. It hit the wall and shattered.

"Scared, Larqua? Well you should be. I'm going to tear you apart, for only I, your sister of blood, of something deeper-oh yes, you know of what I speak-can be your undoing. I understand your twisted motives, I know everything about you! If you want to tangle with the blood of this family, then tangle with _me_."

Rushing at her sister, there was a considerable amount of fear in Larqua's eyes. In contrast, a certain killing edge had overtaken Dorothea's golden eyes. As a means of self-preservation, Larqua quickly moved out of the bedroom and fled into the bath room. She seemed to forget that she had a shield; either that or she wasn't sure if it would work against her sister's fury. Tripping over the rug, she fell against the porcelain bath tub. Her mind swirled round for a few moments, as she tried to regain control. But the damage was already done. Her shield dropped, and Dorothea, quick to react, called in her hunting knife and plunged it into her sister's chest.

Larqua's screams filled the air, but Dorothea could not hear them. Yanking the knife out, she did it again and again. She did it until she became exhausted. Until Larqua's blood ran thick on the white tiled floor. Dropping the knife, Dorothea leaned back against the bath tub, emotionally and physically drained. The eyes of her sister still lingered with a certain flame of life. But Dorothea couldn't finish the kill. Her sister's strength was equal to her own. But, more importantly, Dorothea couldn't bring herself to destroy the connection she had known for so long. Even if Larqua's body was dying, her psychic connection would live on.

It finally struck, Dorothea, then, as she sat there, at what she had done. A distant sound of scampering footsteps drew near the doors of the outer bedroom. Slamming the bathroom door shut, Dorothea placed an Opal lock on it. She didn't want to be found out. Not yet. Rather, she wanted to bring her knees to her chest and cry. _What have I done?_

Twelve: Terreille

William hummed quietly as she brushed off the black stallion in his family's stable for the second time. Where was Dorothea? They were supposed to meet half an hour ago. And she usual was rather prompt, as hunting was something she enjoyed. He stayed up last night preparing himself for the questions he wanted to ask today. He wouldn't let her evade him. Not this time. Blowing his long bangs off of his eyes, he continued to work. Working made it easier to forget his worry and his anger, and he didn't dare stop.

But then, someone shouted his name. Turning around, he saw a slender teenage girl running to him, her shirt covered in blood, and her face and hair dotted with it.

"Dorothea" was all he could manage as he took slow, unsteady steps out to her.

"I have to leave her now, William. Will you take me?" A silent plead, full of fear and anger. Confused and scared, he wasn't sure what to say at first. What in Hell's name had happened?

"Yes."


End file.
